


The Tradition of Gift-Giving

by smallhorizons



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas and Dean in Hot Topic, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Episode: s10e20 Angel Heart, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Dean Winchester, Pining, The Winchester Gospels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:25:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3852499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallhorizons/pseuds/smallhorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from 10.20, Angel Heart.</p><p>Cas has heard that it's tradition to give someone a present on their birthday. Only problem is, neither he nor Dean are all that savvy when it comes to buying presents for teenage girls. And even when they follow Charlie's advice and head to Hot Topic, they're way out of their element - especially when Dean sees Supernatural merchandise for sale.</p><p>And Dean is half-sick with his longing for Cas, but when he finds the courage to reach out, Cas reaches back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tradition of Gift-Giving

**Author's Note:**

> The summary is probably crackier than this actually is. It's got fluff. And a bit of angst. And all that good stuff. 
> 
> Also: small warning for a very brief mention of wincest in the context of a sales assistant (very briefly) discussing it with Dean. Dean obviously does not have a very fond opinion of it, so there's like two sentences of both he and the sales assistant just saying it kinda weirds them out. It's not at all vitriolic, just two characters expressing some discomfort about it.

“It’s Claire’s birthday,” Cas says abruptly. When Dean turns to look over at him in the passenger’s seat, he sees that Cas is fidgeting a little, fingers tapping against his knees. He’s staring out the window, profile lit up by the passing street lamps. The yellow glow catches on the sharp point of his nose, the plush curve of his lips, collects in the little furrow between his brows. Dean stares longer than he means to. Then, coming back to himself with a shake, he clears his throat and turns his attention to the road.

“Huh,” he says. “She’s turning, what, eighteen?” Cas nods. “So, uh. Got any plans? Gonna get her an ice cream cake and a piñata?” Dean jokes.

There’s a rustle of fabric as Cas turns to look at him. “Is that customary?” he asks after a moment. “An … ice cream cake and a Mexican craft filled with candy?”

“I guess,” Dean says. “You string up the piñata and give the kids a blindfold and hand ‘em a bat and—” he raises his fist for emphasis—“let ‘em at it.”

“That sounds.” Cas hesitates. “Violent.”

“Dude, it’s a game,” Dean says. “And it’s friggin’ hilarious, kids falling all over themselves trying to hit the damn thing.” He chuckles a little, remembering the frustration on Ben’s face as he’d swung wildly, missing the piñata. He’d complained he was too old for that sort of thing before the party had started in earnest, but he’d thrown himself at it with unabashed glee when it came time for the piñata. Dean and Lisa and all of Lisa’s friends had looked on, amused, as the kids egged Ben on, shouting at him to turn a little to the left or a little to the right.

Dean’s chuckle dies in his throat.

“It’s my understanding,” Cas is saying hesitantly, “that there’s a tradition of, um. Giving gifts on birthdays, in American culture.”

Dean raises his eyebrows and looks over at Cas out of the corner of his eye. Cas is staring straight ahead. In the dark, Dean can’t really tell, but he thinks Cas might be blushing. “You wanna buy her a birthday present?” Dean asks.

Cas doesn’t answer for several long moments. “Would that be wise?” he asks finally. “I mean, is that … acceptable? I don’t want her to … I don’t want to. Uh. Overstep my boundaries.”

The road is empty, so Dean doesn’t think twice about turning to look at Cas full-on, taking in the tense, worried line of his mouth and the small lines at the corners of his eyes, the downcast expression. For a second, his heart aches so severely he unconsciously raises one hand to it, massaging lightly at his breastbone. “Yeah,” Dean says. “I think that’s a good idea. I think you should.”

“Really?” Cas asks. “You don’t think it would be—strange? I tried to buy her a magazine, once, but she, uh, she’d stolen my wallet. And then got in the car of a stranger to get away from me.”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it with a click. And then sighs and turns his attention back to the road, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. “Look, man,” he says, “she’s a teenager. She’s been through a lotta shit, and she’s hurtin’ real bad. When you live like that, you pull away from people before they can get too close. But I think—getting a present on her eighteenth birthday, I think that’d be good for her. Show her somebody’s still there.”

“Even though I’m not her dad,” Cas says.

“Even though you’re not her dad,” Dean agrees. “I meant everything I said, alright, about you needing to give her some space. Not trying to make her your responsibility, because she’s capable of taking care of herself, and she doesn’t always want you around. _But_. Birthdays are special, man. And when I was a kid, I, uh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I never got presents. Almost never. Sam would get me shit sometimes, when he was older. Dad certainly never did. Think the most he ever gave me was some tips on how to melt silver down into bullets and maybe some cleaning supplies for the shotgun. Which, y’know, helpful, but not … not birthday presents.”

Dean can feel Cas’ stare against the side of his face, can imagine the solemnity and intent in those blue, blue eyes. When Dean talks, Cas pays attention with every fiber of his being. Like what Dean has to say is as important to him as the Word of God.

Dean clears his throat and wills the heat in his cheeks to die down. “I’m just saying,” he says. “She’s sure as hell not getting anything from anyone else.”

They’re quiet for almost a minute, the two of them, the rumble of the Impala cocooning them as they speed through the night. If Dean pays close attention, he can hear Cas breathing beside him. He’s intensely aware of the space between them. He could reach out. He could reach out and grasp Cas’ wrist, an offer of support. Stroke his thumb over the soft skin between Cas’ thumb and forefinger.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says finally. And then he makes a noise in the back of a throat, something like, _Hmm_. When Dean looks over, Cas is frowning quizzically at the dashboard, eyebrows knitted together. “Dean,” he says, “what do teenage girls like?”

Dean returns his gaze to the road and stares blankly outward. “Uh,” he says. “I have no fucking clue.” And then he has a fuckin’ _eureka_ moment. Light bulbs flashing and everything. “But I know someone who _does_ ,” he says, almost triumphantly, and then he reaches for his phone.

 

* * *

 

“Hot Topic?” Cas repeats into the phone, sounding dubious. “Are you sure? It’s, um. Very loud.”

They’re standing in the closest mall they could find, still swollen with teenagers and harassed-looking parents being tugged around by their kids despite the late hour. The Hot Topic right before them is blasting some god-awful rap-metal-electronica fusion that’s making Dean’s ears bleed. He can barely hear Charlie’s reply, even though he’s leaning so far into Cas’ space his cheek is practically brushing Cas’ knuckles where he holds up his phone. “Yup!” she starts cheerfully, and then he loses it for a bit, and manages to catch only the tail end of it: “—trendy right now, and Dean said she had the whole undercut-braid thing going on before? _Totally_ perfect for her.”

“I don’t know what the ‘undercut-braid thing’ _is_ ,” Cas says, frustrated. “Are you _sure_ this is the right place?”

“Absolutely,” Charlie chirps on the other side of the phone. Some asshole teenager practically collides with Dean, knocking him forward against Cas, chest colliding with Cas’ arm. “ _Hey_ ,” Dean barks after the kid. “Watch where you’re going, dick.” The kid just raises his middle finger in response, not even looking back. “Teens, man,” Dean grouses, “no goddamn respect—“

Cas holds up his finger, presses it lightly against Dean’s mouth. Dean freezes, a word half-formed on his lips, and forgets to breathe. Cas is listening intently to whatever Charlie is saying on the other side, squinting his signature little confused squint.

“What’s a _‘meme_ ’?” Cas asks suspiciously. He even takes his hand away from Dean’s mouth to make little quotation marks. Dean’s heart gives a feeble twitch as he tries to remember how to breathe.

“Oh my GOD,” Dean hears Charlie say. “Give the phone to Dean.”

Cas pulls the phone away from his ear and makes a face at it, nose scrunching up, before obediently handing the phone off to Dean. Dean shakes himself out of his stupor and coughs delicately before taking the phone and raising it to his ear. Then, almost guiltily, he takes a half-step back, just so he can’t feel the warmth of Cas’ shoulder against his chest. “Hey, Charlie,” he manages.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love him, but he’s so clueless,” Charlie sighs. “Not knowing what a meme is! Honestly.”

“Shoulda seen him a couple years ago,” Dean says. “Told me I pronounced ‘wabbit season’ wrong.”

“Please tell me you rectified that situation ASAP,” Charlie says. Cas does his annoyed-squint face at Dean, like, _stop making fun of me, Dean_. Dean turns his chuckle into a cough.

“Anyway,” he says. “Uh. Advice, please. Coming from someone who used to be an angry teenage girl.”

“Well, like I _was_ saying, they’ve got a lot of stuff with memes on it. Like, nyan cat and things like that. They’re hilarious. But, honestly, Dean? Don’t get anything too cutesy. _Cute_ is okay. Get something that will make her smile.”

“What the hell is the difference between cutesy and cute?” Dean asks.

“Cutesy is like, ‘Oh, look at how adorable you are, now go along and play with your dolls,’” she says, adopting a crooning, snooty grandmother-like voice. “Cute is like, ‘I literally cannot stop giggling at this.’ Don’t you know other teenage girls? Shouldn’t you be, like, hip with the lingo?” Charlie giggles a little.

“Shaddup,” Dean says. “Okay, so, cute-not-cutesy? Anything else?”

“You’ve known her longer than I have,” Charlie points out. “Look. Text me pictures of whatever you’re thinking about buying, and I’ll give you the go-ahead if it’s okay.”

“Some help you are,” Dean mutters. And then he rolls his eyes and says, “Alright. Thanks, Charlie.” She chirps a quick, “Love you!” in his ear and he mumbles, “Yeah, you too,” before he hangs up.

“Cute-not-cutesy?” Cas repeats incredulously.

Dean shrugs. “Man, the hell do I know? Let’s just get this over with. Swear I’m losing brain cells just standing here listening to that noise.”

Cas grimaces. “Yes, it’s very … loud.” He lifts a hand and touches his temple with the tips of his fingers before closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Trying to block out the waves is more difficult than I thought it would be.”

“You can do that?” Dean asks, eyebrows lifting. Cas frowns at him, and this close Dean can see all the tiny lines that form around the edges of his mouth as his lips pull downward.

“It’s a simple matter,” Cas says. “Or, at least, it should be.” He rolls his shoulders, as if trying to settle his coat more comfortably. “I don’t know. I’m having … some difficulties, getting accustomed to having my grace back. Grace that’s not trying to kill me, that is.” Then he smiles, a wry, little thing that makes Dean snort and shake his head, because this friggin’ asshole, man.

“C’mon,” Dean says, and he turns toward the store with some trepidation. There’s a small crowd of teenagers in the place, packed together like sardines in a can. Unconsciously, his hand drifts up to rest on Cas’ arm, just above his elbow. “The things I do for you, man,” he sighs.

“I do appreciate it, Dean,” Cas says quietly. “Thank you for coming with me.”

Dean shrugs it off even though the words are so sincere that he feels the warmth of them searing the inside of his rib cage. “What’s family for?” he says, and then he takes a deep breath and takes the plunge.

\--

\--

Inside, it’s even louder, and the close press of bodies doesn’t make the situation any more comfortable. Dean and Cas stick to the walls, Dean keeping his body carefully between Cas and the others. Cas has this—this _thing_ , about being touched. His shoulders are tense, blue eyes worried as they flick around the room. It’s stupid, but … Dean likes this. Dean can protect him like this. Keep him safe away from the stifling humanity around them.

“See anything you think she’d like?” Dean asks. He has to bend close to say it, mouth almost touching the curve of Cas’ ear. He realizes after a second that the dude’s a friggin’ angel, he’d probably be able to hear Dean even if he were whispering on the other side of the room, but. Well. It’s his hair, the lovely scent of freshly-fallen rain and something like lightning in the distance. And the warmth of his cheek when he shakes his head and Dean’s stubble rasps against his own.

Dean steps closer to Cas to give a trio of girls the space to pass, grimacing when he hears one of them giggle, “Oh, my God, what is he, forty?”

“Thirty-six, thanks,” Dean mutters. This is so not his forte. And he’s not _that_ friggin’ old.

“They severely underestimated my age,” Cas says wryly, starting to move forward again. Dean keeps pace with him, falling a little behind and placing a feather-light touch on his upper back unconsciously. He realizes a moment later what he’s done, and he falters mid-step before correcting himself and continuing on. He presses his hand a little closer. Cas isn’t complaining, so. Well. Whatever.

“Yeah, by a couple billion years or something,” Dean says.

“Yes,” Cas says, sounding vaguely distracted. “Have I ever told you about watching the earth form?”

“Think I’d remember if you did.” There’s a veritable wall of t-shirt designs before them, featuring bands Dean’s never even friggin heard of. One Direction. Avenged Sevenfold. Slipknot. _Insane Clown Posse_?

“I don’t know how long it took, because _time_ as such didn’t exist back then,” Cas says. He touches Dean’s arm and, once Dean’s looked away from reading down the wall of t-shirts, he points at something. It’s a keychain with a plushy Jack Skellington on it. “ _Nightmare Before Christmas_ ,” Cas says. “That’s a cult classic for Claire’s generation. Isn’t it?”

Dean reaches past Cas and holds it up, scrunching his face a little. “I dunno, man. What if she doesn’t like the movie?”

Cas seems to deflate, shoulders slumping a barely-noticeable inch. “I didn’t think of that,” he says. He pushes gently at Dean’s hand to get him to drop the keychain. His touch lingers, the heat of his hand sending goosebumps up Dean’s arm, before his arm drops back to his side.

“We’ll find something,” Dean says. He presses at Cas’ back, just enough to get him moving again. “Charlie said get something funny and cute, so. Look for stuff that’s funny and cute. And don’t stop in the middle of the story, man. Watching the earth get formed, huh? You’re literally old as dirt.”

“Older,” Cas says. “Technically. Prior to the earth’s formation, it was all rock. Debris.” He points at a Pikachu hoodie and looks hopefully up at Dean. “She would have grown up with that, correct?”

“Dude. No.”

Cas actually looks a little dejected, but he lowers his hand and lets Dean urge him forward again. Dean turns his attention back to the virtual wall of t-shirts. There’s a row of stuff with cartoon ponies on it, some weird anime crap, a couple of vintage-looking Disney t-shirts, and …

Dean actually stops in his tracks. “No friggin’ way,” he says. “They’re selling _Led Zeppelin_ shirts here?”

“Do you want one?” Cas asks.

“I’m not buying a shirt that comes from this place,” Dean snaps, but then he’s thinking, _Do they have it in my size?_ And then he shakes himself and actually says out loud, “No,” and then, “Ugh,” because they’ve got classics up there, shirts he’s owned before that got lost or destroyed over the years.

“Go look,” Cas says. “I can manage on my own.”

Dean turns to look at Cas, opening his mouth to protest, but Cas simply rearranges his face into a stern no-nonsense look, one eyebrow even lifting like he can _smell_ Dean’s bullshit.

“But,” Dean starts feebly.

“I can take care of myself in a store full of teenagers,” Cas says. He looks unsure for a moment, eyes a little lost, before he shakes his head and adds, “I’ll be fine.” He’s already moving away from Dean, picking his way through the crowd to a display table just a few feet away.

“Don’t go anywhere without telling me,” Dean says, feeling kind of ridiculous for saying it, and Cas shoots a look over his shoulder like, _Really_? Dean shrugs, face burning, then turns back to the t-shirts before he does something else to embarrass himself like an idiot.

It’s not that he thinks Cas can’t take care of himself. Hell, he knows how capable Cas is. He doesn’t need Dean worrying over him like a mother hen. But. It’s just that Cas is so … _Cas_. A little confused and a little naïve still around humans, a little too willing to think the best of humanity. He doesn’t know how to deal with kids like this. Hell, he hardly interacts with humans outside a hunt. And when Dean had found him, working at the Gas ‘n’ Sip, he’d _seen_ how Cas’ coworkers treated him. Like he was a freak, something to snicker at behind his back. And Cas had been so friggin’ pleased with himself, that he’d managed to make friends that weren’t Sam and Dean.

Dean reaches blindly for the first t-shirt he can find and he drags it out of the pile without thinking about it, needing something to do with his hands. He unfolds it and shakes it out and holds it up to eyelevel and.

 _Saving People. Hunting Things. The Family Business_. Encircling an anti-possession sigil, in big white print.

“No,” Dean whispers. “No _fucking_ way.”

He looks up at the wall of t-shirt, eyes wide, and he actually _moans_ in despair when he sees that there are several other designs on display. One with a black Impala across the chest of a white t-shirt, _Driver picks the music_ above it in red ink, _Shotgun shuts his cakehole_ below. One that says _#DeanGirl_ , another that says _#SamGirl_. One with a giant devil’s trap. And one with—

He double takes. One with a giant red handprint smack dab in the middle of the shirt. _I’m the one who gripped you tight_ _and raised you from perdition_.

“Oh my fucking god,” Dean says. He almost knocks a whole pile of t-shirts onto the floor as tosses the original shirt aside and looks for the big red handprint, as if seeing the shirt up close and personal will somehow change the fact that there is a friggin’ t-shirt that’s emblazoned with the words of one of the most important moments of his fucking _life_ available for all the fanatics of Chuck’s books to wear, as if his life is a fuckin’ fairy tale.

There’s only a few of the shirts left, two or three, and Dean grabs the very top one, unfolds it sloppily, holds it up, and just. _Gawks_. Because that’s. That’s his friggin’ _life_ they’re putting on display. One of those moments that Dean couldn’t forget even if he tried, because the scent of ozone, the image of the wild creature Cas used to be striding towards him as the lights burst and showered him with sparks—those are imprinted into his very skin. Burned there like Cas’ handprint used to be.

“You’re a fan?” someone asks, and fuck it if Dean doesn’t jump half outta his skin, so wrapped up in the mantra of _what the fuck what the fuck_ circling his head. It’s a shop assistant, holding her hands up in apology, eyes round. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just coming over to ask if you needed any help finding anything.”

It takes Dean a few seconds to work up enough saliva to wet his dry mouth and speak. “Nah,” he says, “Nah, I’m, uh, I’m good.”

The girl (young woman?)— _Jemma_ , her name tag says—points at the t-shirt and asks, “So—you’re a fan? We don’t get too many Supernatural customers, y’know, it’s got such a tiny fandom, but that’s a really popular t-shirt in those circles. We don’t restock it very often cuz it’s not in high demand, but that one sells out faster than all the others. Except maybe the family business one.”

“Um,” Dean says. “I’m, uh, not really a—I mean, the books aren’t really my thing.”

The girl smiles at him understandingly. “I get it,” she says. “But, seriously, you’re not weird for liking the books, y’know. The fandom’s not entirely made up of teenage girls.”

“No, I really—I’m not … Uh.” Dean clears his throat. “Anyway. Um.” He gestures with the t-shirt and forces himself to laugh a little. “Dean and Cas, huh?”

“Dean and Cas,” the girl agrees. She looks surreptitiously around and then leans in closer to Dean. “Just between you and me,” she says, “I prefer Destiel. Not that I have anything against Wincest! It’s just. The brother thing kinda weirds me out. But to each his own, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean says a little faintly. “Yeah, um, I’m not a fan of, of Wincest, either.”

The girl leans away again, smiling a little. “Anyway! You gonna buy that? I’d suggest going a size up, though, the shirts tend to shrink a little and your shoulders are pretty broad.”

“Oh, no, I’m not—I’m not looking to buy anything,” Dean says. “I’m here with a, a friend—he’s trying to get a present for his, um, his daughter. He might need help, actually, he’s clueless, doesn’t know what the hell to buy her—”

“Dean,” Cas says, appearing next to Dean as if out of nowhere. Dean does _not_ jump, and he certainly doesn’t ball up the t-shirt in one hand guiltily, like he’s hiding it. He’s had it about up to here with people sneaking up on him, damnit. Cas holds up a stuffed cat with a flat, scowling face. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

“Is this your friend?” Jemma asks Dean. Then, to Cas, “For your daughter?”

“Yes,” Cas says after a second. “She’s very … frustrated, with everything, right now. I thought this would, um. Cheer her up.”

“Grumpy Cat cheers everyone up,” Jemma says. She’s smiling brightly. “I have one of those—they’re _adorable_.”

“You think it’s alright for an eighteen-year-old?” Cas asks, very intently.

Jemma laughs. “I’m twenty-three. Trust me, she’ll love it.”

Cas turns the cat around and stares down at it, hands wrapped around its plush middle. “Dean,” he says after a few moments of scrutiny, “what do you think?” He turns it around again and holds it up for Dean to see.

Up close, its squashed face is kinda ugly, an expression of utter boredom on its face. The stuffed animal looks like it’s fed up with everything, like—well, like how Cas looks, sometimes. When he’s irritated with human nuances or sick of dealing with Dean’s shit or when he’s been interrupted in the middle of something and complains under his breath when he thinks Dean can’t hear.

Inexplicably, Dean loves the damn thing.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Absolutely.” And then he digs out his phone. “Wait, we should text Charlie—”

“I already did,” Cas says. “She says that it’s cute-not-cutesy, and she wants one.”

“I told you,” Jemma says, “Everybody likes Grumpy Cat.” She smiles once more at Cas, then at Dean. “I’ll be around if you need any more help.” Then she does this weird little wave and slips past them to go talk to a group of loud pre-teens.

Cas turns the stuffed animal around in his hands again, fingers threading through its soft fur. He smiles down at it, just a little twitch of his mouth, then looks up at Dean. “What are you holding?” he asks.

Dean almost chokes. “Um,” he says. “It’s nothing, it’s just.” He coughs out a laugh, then holds the t-shirt up so that Cas, tucking the stuffed animal beneath his arm, can take it from him and hold it up to see. “Guess Chuck’s books are still making the rounds.”

Cas is staring at the t-shirt with his eyes narrowed, mouth tight. He doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, “It’s stupid. And, man, that’s—that’s my life on a friggin’ _t-shirt_. I mean, what the hell?”

Abruptly, Cas pushes forward and holds the t-shirt up to Dean’s shoulders, as if he’s imaging what Dean would look like wearing it. “Hold it there,” he orders, and Dean dumbly takes the shoulders of the shirt from him, keeping it up against his chest. Cas takes a step back and tilts his head to one side, quizzical, suspicious.

“Um,” Dean starts to say, but then Cas reaches out and places his hand over the handprint on the t-shirt, right over Dean’s chest. The solid press of his hand, the warmth radiating out from his palm, the feeling of his long, slender fingers, despite Dean’s layers, is. It’s _nice_. God, it’s better than nice.

Dean wonders if Cas can feel his quickening heartbeat beneath his palm, and then decides he doesn’t care.

Cas takes his hand away, and Dean rocks after it, chasing after Cas’ touch, flushing when he realizes what he’s doing. “The handprint is too large,” Cas says. “And it’s in the wrong place. It should be on your shoulder.”

“Is that.” Dean blinks. “Is that your _only issue_ with this?”

“People are inspired by your story, even if they don’t know it’s true,” Cas says. “These t-shirts, the … memorabilia. They are tokens of their admiration.” He smiles a little. “They see you as a hero, because you are a hero. Just because they think it’s a story doesn’t make those feelings any less real.” And then, more quietly, “You’re a hero to the people who truly know you, too, Dean. Not just to those who see you as a fictional character, nothing more.”

Dean stares at Cas for a long moment, throat tight. Because the words are fucking crawling out of his throat, he so _desperately_ wants to say them, wants to babble _Oh fuck I love you so much_ , but he swallows them down, forces them to settle, scratching to be free, in the hollow of his chest.

Cas holds his gaze for a second longer before turning to walk towards the register. “Put that away,” he says. “The handprint is all wrong.”

 

* * *

 

In the car, Cas keeps the gift bag with the Grumpy Cat firmly on his lap, arms encircling it to keep it secure. Dean keeps looking over at him, taking in the soft, pleased look on his face, the curl of dark hair behind his ear, the small lines at the corners of his eyes. He loves him so fucking much. Him and his sincerity and his stupid squinty face and his _kindness_ , the way he touches Dean, the way he _looks_ at Dean. Like Dean is important. Like Dean is a fucking hero. Like Dean is more than that, like Dean is his anchor. Fuck. He looks at Dean like he loves him. Like he’s worth loving.

“Cas,” Dean starts, and then he doesn’t know what to say. The mark has been quiet all day, subdued in Cas’ presence, but now it prickles in warning. Dean takes a deep breath and ignores it.

“Yes, Dean?” Dean can feel Cas looking at him, the weight of his stare. The warmth of it. Dean can’t look back at him, has to keep his eyes on the road, because if he looks over then his own cowardice is gonna swallow him up.

Dean reaches over, fumbling a little, hand brushing against Cas’ warm thigh before his fingers find the sharp knob of bone in Cas’ wrist. Cas’ breath hitches in a sharp inhale, and Dean falters for a moment before steeling himself and reaching further, wrapping his hand gently around Cas’ slender wrist. He can feel Cas’ heart beating, quick and strong beneath his fingertips.

Cas shifts a little, pulls his wrist away, but Dean only gets a moment to feel a crushing sense of rejection and resignation before Cas threads his fingers between Dean’s own, palm dry and broad against Dean’s. His thumb strokes lightly over Dean’s knuckles.

Dean heaves a shuddering breath and brings Cas’ hand to his mouth so he can press his lips to Cas’ knuckles, a little shaky, a little desperate. Helplessly fucking in love.

He holds Cas’ hand there for a long while before finally lowering it to his thigh, holding on too tight, just to feel the delicate bones of Cas’ hand real and _there_ beneath his own.

They keep their hands clasped together for the rest of the drive, heartbeats fluttering in their fingertips. Holding on to each other so they don’t slip away.

 

 


End file.
